


no, i won't smile (but i'll show you my teeth)

by truthbealiar



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Underage, Ramsay is His Own Warning, jon was not raised as a stark, rhaegar's kids were raised in essos, sansa stark is tired and angry, somebody should be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-03-29 09:30:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19017151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truthbealiar/pseuds/truthbealiar
Summary: Jon Targaryen was born with the knowledge that it was his destiny, hisdutyto lay claim to the Iron Throne, and take his rightful place as the King of the Seven Kingdoms. The Targaryens will take back Westeros with fire and blood.But then he hears the whispers from the North. Quiet worship of wild wolves, silently taking back what is theirs, not with fire and blood, but winter and teeth.The Starks have risen, the North proclaims in hushed voices.It is a time for wolves.- or -Jon learned the hard way that a true King is not allowed to want. But he would dare any god to speak with Sansa Stark, and feel anything but desire.





	1. prologue: someone like me can be a real nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> here we go with another au! this is one i've been toying around with since the beginning of season 8, when i decided to try my hand at the 'rhaegar lives' idea. rather than winning the war however, he takes his children and flees to essos. this chapter will serve as the prologue, and you may leave with more questions than answers! (i fear it's becoming my m.o.) however, rest assured, answers will be coming (like winter) in future chapters!
> 
> i'm being quite selective with the canon in this fic. it's mostly an au, but there will be a lot of canon events, though they may take place at different points in time. for the purpose of this fic, more years have passed than in canon, and the characters are older than in the book/show. 
> 
> fic and chapter titles from halsey's 'nightmare'.

Theon Greyjoy was a strange looking man, Jon decided.   
  


He would have been considered quite handsome, Jon thought, if he ever managed to raise his eyes. There was something utterly defeated about the man's posture. His silhouette was a paradox of slumped shoulders and harsh lines. Absently, Jon wondered if this was what it looked like, when one was broken by the harshness of the North. The Greyjoys were from the Iron Islands, but Jon understood that the man had spent time in the North. It hadn't appeared to be kind to him. 

Beside him, Daenerys was regarding both Yara and Theon with a coolness in her eyes, that did nothing to extinguish the smoldering fire resting underneath her skin. She had been the one to inform Jon of this meeting. There had been barely contained excitement in her voice when she spoke - the enthusiasm that always unnerved Jon. It reminded him of the way his father used to talk about the  _ Prince Who Was Promised _ . The Greyjoys had ships, Dany had all but shouted at him in delight. They could aid the Targaryens and their army in crossing the Narrow Sea. Westeros was in their grasp.

Jon's own hopes were not nearly as high as his aunt's. 

Westeros had always been a distant dream, but in the silence and solitude of Jon's own thoughts, he would readily admit it was Daenerys' dream. Viserys' dream, Rhaegar's dream. Even Rhaenys dream. It was a dream that Jon had little to do with, but inherited nonetheless.

He was the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. Jon had been born with that knowledge poised like a blade at his neck. Rhaegar Targaryen had wed Lyanna Stark in secret, and the result was Jon. The result was war, and the near extinction of Jon's family. 

Underneath the sweltering sun of Dorne, in a poorly named tower, Jon had been brought into the world with the dying breath of Lyanna Stark. At the base of the tower, swords had clashed - Ser Arthur Dayne and the other knights tasked with his mother's protection, holding off a band of savage rebels, long enough for Rhaegar to reach his wife and child. He was too late to save the woman he had destroyed the world for, but he managed to smuggle Jon out of the Tower, fleeing to Qarth. 

It was a familiar story, one Jon had heard his whole life. Never from Rhaegar. The former king never liked to discuss that time. He was even more reluctant to speak of the young woman who had been worth the impossibly steep price. Jon didn't know what he believed of the story. Rhaegar had always been a gifted singer and storyteller, but Jon didn't believe in songs. He struggled to reconcile the tragic romance with the tragic reality of seven kingdoms being ripped apart. Jon struggled, every time he was reminded of Rhaegar's intense love for his wife and child, when he was called 'the rightful heir' - only to turn and meet his  _ older _ brother's eyes.

Jon had never been terribly interested in stories, but he hated his own most of all.

Theon Greyjoy shifted slightly, though he still did not raise his eyes, and Jon returned his attention to the two ironborn before him. His eyes narrowed in careful consideration and suspicion, as he took in the slight tremble of the other man's hands. Qarth was a city of great beauty, and one of a sweltering, oppressive heat. Men and women wore as little as possible - a fact that  _ both _ Greyjoy siblings seemed distinctly uncomfortable with. Jon himself was clad in only the scant armor and cloth that was a regular sight around the fighting ring. Daenerys had wrinkled her nose when Jon arrived, but she had said nothing. Jon knew that his sister and aunt both expected him to dress for matters of state, but Jon refused. He had lived in Qarth long enough to love the city, and adopt some of its customs, but the careful attention to one's appearance would never be among what Jon absorbed. Besides, he knew of the ironborn and their iron price. He assumed they would respect him more, than if he were to dress as some ridiculous dandy.

The two sailors from the Iron Islands looked remarkably out of place. Their clothing was dull and muted, with motifs of the sea in every stitch of clothing. Rhaenys would say that their expressions matched even Jon's most dour pout - a claim that Jon would viciously refute - and there was a hardness in their eyes that piqued Jon's curiosity. There was no doubt in his mind that Yara Greyjoy was a warrior. It wasn't a fire in her eyes, but Jon recognized the anger of his sister, his aunt. She was a formidable woman, it was certain.

"You are a long way from home."

Jon's words made the other man flinch. Dark grey eyes appraised the Greyjoy heir carefully, but Theon kept his head down, his trembling hands clasped in front of him. Jon wondered if he carried the cold of the ocean with him here. He wondered if it was any comfort in this desert city.

"Why have you come?"

He could feel Daenerys' burning glare on his sweat slicked skin. Daenerys had informed him exactly of the Greyjoys' purpose here, her words practically tripping over themselves in their rush to tumble out of her mouth. Jon knew why the ironborn were here. But he wanted to hear it from their own mouths. He wanted to know not just why they were here, but what they wanted.

One didn't simply cross the Narrow Sea and journey to Qarth in search of leisure.

"You're the rightful king, aren't you?" 

Jon's mouth wanted to twitch into a smile. There was a certain impertinence to Yara Greyjoy that made him want to smile. He had always found it attractive in a woman - though he suspected he might not find the same delights in Balon Greyjoy's daughter that his aunt seemed keen to explore. 

Still, Jon kept his face impassive. These two were Westerosi - unknowns. Jon still struggled to think of himself as being from Westeros - let alone the king of it. He had lived in Essos since his birth. While there was a part of Jon that yearned for his ancestral homeland, he was still suspicious of those who arrived from the land he had never actually seen.

"Aye." Another flinch from Theon Greyjoy. "But you can't expect me to believe you came all the way here just to bend the knee." 

Yara Greyjoy's gaze was hard. 

"We don't expect much from you."

Daenerys hissed behind him, and Jon bit back a groan. Impertinence - while amusing - was not something Jon could afford to tolerate. At least, not in public.

"Then I believe we have nothing more to discuss."

Jon was already standing, like the Greyjoy siblings, but he turned, prepared to walk out of the private solar, and straight back to the fighting ring. He hadn't let his hopes raise as high as Daenerys', but they had been raised nonetheless.

_ We don't expect much from you. _

He wanted to gnash his teeth together, not least because it was a fear that often crept up on Jon at night. He was the rightful king of Westeros, but what did that even mean? Who would take his claim seriously? There was little love for the Targaryens in Westeros. Upon being reunited with his aunt, Jon had been alarmed to hear the nonsense his long dead uncle had planted in her mind. Stories and songs of greatness and adoration and a people that craved subjugation at the fire of a dragon. Jon and Rhaenys had disabused Dany of such notions, as much as they could, but Jon could not help but linger in the darkness of the exact opposite. 

Jon knew his story. Rather, he knew Rhaegar's account of his story. But Jon knew the other stories. Jon heard from the mouth of Jorah Mormont himself, the Westerosi account. In it, Robert Baratheon was not an usurper, and Ned Stark was not his dog. They were the valiant men who rallied the Seven Kingdoms in the name of justice, and removed a mad despot from power. Rhaegar Targaryen was no silver prince, and Lyanna Stark was not a willing maiden. This was the story the people of Westeros knew. This was the story the  _ North _ knew. 

There would perhaps be some that rejoiced to see the Targaryens return. But there would be just as many, if not tenfold more, that wept and gnashed their teeth. Those that whispered of  _ dragons _ and  _ mad kings _ and plotted assassinations in secret. Jon was wary of Westeros, and all of its people. There was a part of him - a large part - that often wished he had never been born a prince. Jon had once begged his father to allow him to become a sellsword, rather than shoulder the burden and responsibility of ruling - ruling a kingdom that he hadn't even reconquered. That day, Rhaegar had looked at him with such disappointment, Jon could have sworn he detected disgust in his eyes.

_ "I expected more from you." _

Before Jon could leave, however, Theon Greyjoy flinched more violently. It almost seemed like an abortive movement to grab Jon's wrist, or block his path, though Theon never moved from the position on the floor his feet seemed nailed to. It succeeded in making Jon pause, and he caught the deep sigh Yara gave when he did.

"Cersei Lannister sits on the Iron Throne," she stated plainly, the anger clear in her voice. "My people had no great love for Robert Baratheon," her face twisted into a snarl, and Jon remembered learning of the Greyjoy rebellion, and the steep iron price the ironborn had paid, "But he wasn't mad. Cersei takes after her late husband's predecessor."

Daenerys hissed sharply behind him, and Jon's eyes quickly cut to hers. He gave a warning shake of his head, and Dany's lips curled back into a snarl. She might have been shouting  _ “dracarys!” _ right then and there, but Yara Greyjoy did not flinch. She matched his aunt's glare with one of her own. Dany was all fire and fury, but looking at Yara Greyjoy, Jon saw the angry crash of waves in her eyes. The sea was certainly as unruly and lethal as any dragon from the sky.

Jon did not take the same offense that his aunt felt so keenly. Aerys was his grandfather, not his father, and he  _ had _ been mad. It was something Rhaegar had admitted, easily enough, though tinged with sadness, always sadness. Aerys had been mad, and would have destroyed the Seven Kingdoms. Jon had his suspicions - ones he would never voice - that there was a part of Rhaegar, no matter how small, that felt indebted to Jaime Lannister, for saving him from the sin of kinslaying. 

"A Mad Queen?" Jon questioned, keeping his voice impassive.

Yara tore her gaze away from the Mother of Dragons.

"Worse." Jon simply raised an eyebrow. "She's  _ sane _ ." 

Somehow, the words were chilling. Theon gave another violent shudder beside his sister, but she ignored it.

"Explain," Jon demanded, his voice cold and unyielding.

"She's not acting out of madness. Her actions are mad, but Cersei isn't. She's rational, and ruthless, and she fears nothing. Her bastard sons are dead. Her daughter of incest is dead. Her brother-lover has abandoned her. Her imp brother murdered her father. Cersei Lannister is the most powerful woman in Westeros, and she has nothing to lose. Do you understand?"

Jon had heard his aunt give fevered speeches before. He had heard the passion in her voice, the way she took a single spark of  _ something  _ and turned it into a roaring fire of righteous fury and loyalty. He had heard the way Dany could win over a crowd so easily, and make the coldest of men  _ feel _ . 

Yara Greyjoy was not Daenerys Targaryen. She did not have a silver tongue, and she did not inspire passion within Jon. Her words were not shouted, they did not crescendo with their implication. But Jon felt shaken, in a way he refused to admit. Yara Greyjoy delivered her speech - brief though it was - in a flat monotone, with a hint of desperation. It was that, more than anything, that Jon understood. Staring at the children of Pyke - Yara standing tall, proud, angry, while her brother hunched at her side - Jon recognized them for what they were. Desperate, and nearly defeated.

Jon felt an inexplicable surge of anger. Westeros had never felt like his home, but he knew certain events, certain moves that were made in the game Cersei Lannister had forced upon the land. Heralds came, and Rhaenys had spies aplenty. However, the events always seemed detached, dry. Figures were rattled off, and information was presented, but Jon had always struggled to muster up much energy to expend on his so-called kingdom across the sea, when he felt more a part of this land than what was his birthright.

That had been before the dreams. Now, nearly every night he had dreams of snow and ice. At night he ran through the snow at incredible speeds, blurring the land around him, until all he saw was white, with flashes of red. Jon hadn't told anyone of the dreams, but he knew what he dreamt of. Jon had never seen the North, but something deep and primal within him recognized his ancestral homeland. The land of his mother. 

In his lessons, Rhaegar had always talked softly of the North and its people. He told Jon of how they were a proud and ancient people, and of them, the oldest and wisest were the Starks. It had been Torrhen Stark who bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror, but even after swearing fealty to the king, the North had always been apart. The Southron people of Westeros hadn't liked the North, Rhaegar had explained, when Jon had been a boy of only six. They found them backwards. 

_ "Was that why no one wanted you to marry Mama?" _ Jon had asked, with all the innocence of a curious child. Rhaegar's eyes had darkened, and he shook his head, pressing his lips together in a way that Jon had recognized even then, that signaled the end of the lesson.

The dreams had made Jon more curious about the kingdom he was to someday rule, if his family's dreams were ever fully realized. Rhaenys had noticed Jon's curiosity, and delighted in it. More and more information seemed to pour forth from the land across the sea as a result, and what Jon had heard was disturbing, to say the least. Incestuous bastards propped up as the trueborn children of the Usurper, only to be torn from the Iron Throne they were not worthy to sit upon, replaced by the monster that had born them. A war of five false kings, coming to blows, and destroying the kingdom even further. Smallfolk and innocents being slaughtered in the quest for power, the desperate scrabble to cling onto what little one possessed. It disgusted Jon, and filled him with the fury he suspected must always blossom in his aunt's blood. 

But never before had Jon been truly faced with the citizens of Westeros, and made to face what they had endured. Jon's own life had not been one of ease and songs, but he did not know the harsh lines that marred the otherwise young - gods, but weren't they all so  _ young _ ? - faces of the Greyjoy heirs.

Still, Jon couldn't simply steal a boat and sail across the Narrow Sea to simply march up to King's Landing, and demand Cersei Lannister's head. Jon was hot-headed, it was true, but he wasn't brash and senseless. That had always been Aegon. So he fixed Yara Greyjoy with an appraising look, that gave away nothing.

"How do you expect to win against something who has nothing else to lose?"

Yara gave a shrug of her shoulders. It was a sharp jerk, and it looked strange, coming from the woman.

"The people of the Seven Kingdoms have little left to lose either."

Finally, Jon turned, and met his aunt's gaze. An entire conversation was held with their eyes, and Jon felt the anticipation mounting within him. The same feeling was reflected in Daenerys' eyes. They could feel it in their bones, in their blood. The land of their birth was calling to them, at long last. If Jon closed his eyes, he was certain he would see rolling white hills, and trees with sagging branches, laden with heavy snow. 

_ It was time.  _

"We need ships to arrive in Westeros. Our fleet was destroyed." It was Dany who spoke, her voice cold and commanding. Yara shrugged again, but this time, the gesture seemed more natural, her eyes perhaps a touch warmer. Jon could have sworn he saw a respect in Yara Greyjoy's eyes, one that had not been present when she gazed at him. If anything, Jon felt his own regard for the woman swell.

"We have a fleet. We need an army to take back Westeros."

"We have that," Jon's lips twitched. "But I'm curious. I've never heard of an ironborn venturing out of her way - all the way to Essos, in fact - for the good of the Seven Kingdoms."

Yara scowled. "I didn't hear a question in your curiosity,  _ Your Grace _ ."

Jon did smile this time, but it was a cold, cruel thing. 

"What is it you want, Yara Greyjoy?"

Her spine straightened, and she stood even taller. She was a proud woman, Jon could tell, but he still detected fear in her eyes. It was buried deep, but it was present, nonetheless. Jon was glad of it. Only fools had no fear. Still, he wondered what it was she feared. The way she glanced back at her brother gave Jon some idea, but he did not ask. He would not demand she bare her soul for him. Not yet, at least.

"Our uncle, Euron Greyjoy. He has declared himself king of the Iron Islands. He murdered our father. He means to swear fealty to Cersei Lannister, and rule by her side. He will not succeed, but the Islands will fall into her clutches."

Jon nodded. He had suspected as much, but it was telling that Yara spoke plainly and truthfully. Jon felt as though he had lived infinite lifetimes of lies, and he had little patience for them.

"You intend to declare for independence then?" He persisted. Jon detected a flicker of something in Yara, but her posture seemed to slump, ever so slightly.

"All we ask, is that control of our homeland comes back into the hands of the Greyjoys. Whether that is a part of the Seven Kingdoms or not."

A diplomatic answer. Jon nodded his head in approval.

"You have my word, as rightful King to the Iron Throne, that I will aid you in your endeavor, should you assist my family in taking back what is rightfully ours," Jon swore, taking careful note of his wording, and the gravity of his oath. Yara swore the same, and Jon turned his body toward his aunt.

"Summon Rhaenys, Tyrion and Varys," he instructed. He saw a flash of anger, but Jon knew his aunt would do as he asked. "Bring Grey Worm and Missandei as well." Before Daenerys could move to alert their supporters, Yara moved forward slightly, clearing her throat.

"Before you do that," she began, a nervousness that hadn't been present a moment ago, "There's someone else you need to meet. Someone else who's come to help."

A figure that Jon had not noticed before, dressed in a gown that was certainly not of Pyke, but still uniquely Westeros, stepped out of the shadows, and pulled down her hood.

 

 

* * *

 

There was a chill to the air in the North. Everyone called the land  _ cold _ , but Northerners had long since learned to identify the different  _ colds _ there were. The North was never warm, not like the South. The sun shone just as beautifully, but many of the smallfolk of the Northern lands called it a false star. One that gave light, but very little heat. Fire was for that purpose, not the sun in the sky. The North knew how to identify every type of cold. The early morning chill that clung to what little life managed to grow in winter, freezing drops of dew into beautiful crystal orbs. The cold, unforgiving bite of the wind as it swept across the land, claiming all in its path. The frozen nights that stretched into darkness without fire or light, sometimes becoming darkness of a permanent sort, if one was lacking furs.

The North was used to the cold. The North was used to much hardship. The North always remembered.

The cold that had settled over the North like a second winter, was one that no one had ever experienced before. It was a desolate sort of cold, the chill of emptiness. It was a cold that brought silence, careful glances. It had little to do with the Southron people and their foolish games of fealty and power. Though war had been brought to the doorsteps of the North, since the death of their Young Wolf, they had been tending their wounds carefully. But it was difficult to heal in this impossible cold.

People kept their heads down in the towns, and the inns rarely saw new business. Most doors were locked and secured, as if bolted doors and barred windows would keep out the creeping chill that traveled the land like a wraith, intent on bringing about destruction and death. Songs - even the Northern ones of drinking and fucking - were rarely sang aloud, and conversations were held in hushed whispers, punctuated by suspicious glances. The North huddled in on itself, desperate and frightened of this foreign cold.

No one spoke of the source, though it was easy enough to speculate. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, old crones and weathered men would croak, as if repeating one of the devotional prayers to the Southron gods. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell to guard the North. 

But there hadn't been a Stark in Winterfell not in years. Not after Theon Turncloak had murdered the little lords. Not after the Winter Rose herself had been dragged back to her home by a monster, and managed to escape. There was little hope that the Winter Rose still bloomed. The North had many ancient stories of its winters and its cold winds. The stories of Ramsay Bolton and his hounds were not as old as the North itself, but the people knew them. The Winter Rose had likely been devoured. There were no Starks left in Winterfell. There was only the cold.

Some days though, there was a new sort of cold in the air. It was harsh as any Northern winter, but it was different. There was a brightness, a clarity to the cold. It was the sort of cold that was burning to the touch, that lodged itself in one's lungs and set fire to them. The cold that one could choke on, one  _ would _ choke on, if one wasn't too careful. It was the sort of cold that followed no one and everyone all at once. It was a cold that was as foreign as it was familiar. Perhaps it was most dangerous in the hope that it brought.

Some mornings, people would wake up, and they would feel the winter air, and they would whisper. Eyes were brighter, lips were quicker to curve into smiles. Taverns were occupied on those days, and the whispers grew fervent, rather than despondent. It was the cold of change. People had felt it before. It was as rousing as a stiff pint of ale, or a warm fire, built in the middle of a long, sleepless night. Women didn't hold their children quite as close anymore, and the harsh lines of the hard Norther faces faded into something softer, something more joyous.

Children delighted, and ran about, playing and singing.  _ Joy _ was present, alongside the cold, and the whole of the North felt practically giddy with the prospect. They had felt that cold before, but it was different. This was no Red Wolf. There was no cursed wedding, no keen stab of betrayal. 

This sort of cold was one that cut like a blade, but it was a blade that the Northerners would gladly stand behind, lay their own blades down for. It was a dagger of righteous fury, a beatific smile that revealed sharp, sharp teeth. It was everything the North prayed for at the foot of the weirwood trees. It was a cold that promised the will of the gods would be done, and it would be done with the fierce winds of winter. 

Most Northerners hadn't recognized it, at first. It had been cold for so long, their land laid abandoned and forgotten, that they too, had forgotten what the North promised never to leave behind. It had been a lifetime since clashes of blades and kings, since honorable men swung their blades. The North could be forgiven, for daring to forget. But they were quickly reminded. The days of this sharp, righteous cold fury had been far and few in between, in the beginning. Sporadic, and so infrequent, that many Northerners had begun to give up hope, just when another piercing morning dawned, bringing justice with the frozen sun. But that had been then. This was now.

Now, the days of this cold were more familiar than the Ramsay Bolton's nascent desolation. Children born in this cold were the lucky ones, the waning winter babes, on the precipice of  _ more _ . Southron fools asked if spring was indeed on the horizon, but Northern smiles were harsh and knowing. It was not spring.

_ Winter _ was coming.


	2. i've tasted blood and it is sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War has come for Westeros, and the wolves have come with winter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i apologize for the long wait on this one! this chapter was a _struggle_ to get out, but as the action picks up, hopefully so will my updates!

Jon had been born in a bed of blood and roses, in the violence of the denouement of a war, underneath a streaked sky. He had been born in the Tower of Joy, a misdirect if he had ever heard one. His existence itself had meant the end of his mother. His existence had brought about war. He was born of love, his father had said once, careful hands plucking delicately at the strings of an instrument he had always cared for more than any of his children. Jon had been born of love and violence. Jon had known only violence.

It languished within his breast, something dark and ugly and cruel. It was a ravenous beast, always hungry, curling his fists with its anger. Jon had known tenderness as a boy, but he had been taught to worship at the shrine of the violence that had ushered him into the world, into the war. A blade had been placed in his hand by Jon Connington at only five years old, fashioned of wood rather than steel. He had his father's solemnity, he had been told. Jon had learned to stop squirming under the _wrongness_  of those words. Jon Connington had handed him a wooden blade at five, certain of Jon's resemblance to his father, certain that he would be a natural like him too.

Jon was a natural. He was nothing like his father. He did not move with the swift gracefulness of Rhaegar, though he eventually learned. He moved like a man possessed, a boy of just five. He was knocked back easily, sent sprawling onto the ground. Jon remembered scrambling to his feet, pushing the dark curls - unlike his father, so _unlike_  the Targaryen look - out of his eyes. He remembered the uneasiness in his father's eyes, in the inscrutable gaze of Jon Connington. He remembered how his heart sank. He was nothing like his father.

He wondered, in the later years, if his father had ever known want. If Rhaegar Targaryen had ever known what it was to want, and to fight for that want. Oh he had wanted, _certainly_. A kingdom had nearly fallen for his wanting. A dynasty had been destroyed for his _wanting_. And Rhaegar had fought for that want. What had it gotten him? A ship to Essos, two dead wives, a bed of blood and roses and a son born of violence. Jon wondered if Rhaegar had ever known what it was to want with his entire _being_  and fight until there was nothing left, and fight until he _won_.

Jon had been born of violence, in the midst of terrible fighting. He had been fighting from the moment he was born. Jon had never known what it was like not to _want_. He had never known what it was like not to _fight_  until that want was sated. He had been born to fight, not to rule. Jon was nothing like his father. He was not a king.

And yet he stood tall, sword in hand, in the middle of the Throne Room of King’s Landing, staring up at the throne known throughout the Seven Kingdoms, and even Essos. 

It was so much smaller than Jon had imagined.

That was all he could think of, staring at the Iron Throne that had loomed in the distant horizon of his future for as long as he could remember. Before Jon had known his own  _ name _ he had known that he was destined to someday sit upon the Iron Throne. Viserys and Aegon had oft spoken of the throne. Viserys had once told his spellbound little sister, and disinterested nephew that the throne was made of the thousand swords of Aegon's fallen enemies. Dany had later expressed her fevered excitement to Jon, color high in her cheekbones, as she whispered furiously about the mountain of swords that he would rule from. 

It had been Rhaegar who corrected Jon, his voice soft and distant, the way it often became when he spoke of Westeros. It was not quite as large as Viserys and Daenerys had made it out to be, he assured Jon. But he had been no more than a young boy. The throne had seemed insurmountable then. Now Jon stood, alone in the throne room, staring at the mass of swords, fashioned together to form a chair that  _ thousands _ had fought over. His teeth clenched. Was it worth it?

Perhaps it was treason to wonder such a thing, even if he only did so in his head. His own family were among the slain, among the killers. Jon himself had fought for this throne, though he did so out of duty far more than any true desire. But why had so many fought so viciously to sit upon such an ugly, twisted thing? Power corrupted. Power was a dangerous, deadly thing. Jon had been raised knowing he was to someday take back the Iron Throne, yes, but Rhaegar had taught him the burden of rule. Jon had seen it in his own father's eyes, the weight of his father's sins, the permanent melancholy that characterized his every living moment. Jon could not let that happen to him. He could not become another Aerys, but nor could he follow in his father's footsteps. He heard whispers of  _ Rhaegar come again _ , and he had shrugged them off, and distanced himself from his father's memory. He was no Silver Prince. He would not flee to a distant land, and let those he loved suffer. Jon was to be king, but he would be better than his father, better than his grandfather. He had to be. He could not afford to be anything less. 

There was an emptiness that Jon felt, staring at the mass of iron in front of him. A cavern had opened up in his chest, and his family's words were flooding the space.  _ Fire and blood _ , they declared with pride. " _ We will take what is ours with fire and blood. _ " But they had taken it back. Jon stood, alone in the throne room, in front of the  _ chair _ that  _ thousands _ had died for, and he felt nothing but anger. 

Aegon had died. For this? He wanted to scream until his throat was bloodied and raw. Jon and his older brother had rarely seen eye to eye on anything. Rhaegar had done little to help in that regard, and for as long as Aegon had lived, he never forgave Jon for his birth. He never forgave Jon for being named Rhaegar's heir. There had been moments when the two young men  _ hated _ each other. But they loved each other too. There had been a part of Jon that worshiped Aegon, the silver prince come again. He had been certain that his father had been mistaken. Aegon was the prince who was promised,  _ he _ was the one who would someday take back the Iron Throne. 

They had planned, the two boys and their older sister. They would be the three-headed dragon, taking back what had been stolen from them, but Jon was adamant that Aegon would someday sit on the throne. The games of the West had never mattered to Jon. He would command his brother's armies, serve his true king until the day his life was taken in battle. They had formed glorious plans and spun enthralling tales of conquest and victory. Jon dreamed of the day he would watch the crown be placed on his brother's head.

Instead, Jon held Aegon in his arms as he died in the streets of Qarth, murdered at the hand of an assassin sent by Robert Baratheon to rid the world of the last of the Targaryens. 

It had been the day that Jon allowed the boy within - the one who still dreamt of things beyond iron and steel - to die, and the man who would become king, to emerge. 

Jon had long ago given up fanciful notions of finding someone else to rule. He had been raised with the best tutors in all of Essos, philosophers and Maesters with chains that fell to the ground, proudly displaying their wealth of knowledge. Yet Jon learned more from his father's regret than from any tome or teacher. Jon watched the man who had once been rumored to be the salvation of Westeros, all but fade away, trapped in a past of mistakes and opportunities. Jon would not be more of the same. He would not condemn this land by his inaction, nor would he watch it burn. 

"Nephew."

Jon turned, and his heart clenched in his chest. He was no longer alone in the Throne Room. Daenerys stood, practically engulfed by the gargantuan entryway. She was a tiny woman, and yet she loomed impossibly large. This was no exception. Even from here, Jon could see the way her violet eyes burned with an intensity and passion that struck a note of fear within him. 

_"There's fire in her,"_  Rhaegar had said once, his voice low and sorrowful. _"Too much of it, I fear."_  

But Rhaegar had never been interested in his younger sister. He hadn't cared to learn how she loved lemons, or the way she liked her hair to be brushed just so. He hadn't heard the sounds of her delighted laughs, nor had he seen her purple eyes flash brightly with hope and joy. Jon had. Until Viserys and Daenerys had been sent to Pentos, Jon had grown with her. She had been his closest companion. They had changed in their years apart, but Jon remembered that girl. He and Rhaenys tempered the worst of her impulses, yet Jon had the same concerns as his father. But he was not Rhaegar. He would not commit the same crime of inaction. He would never allow himself to be forced to choose between kinslaying or the death of thousands. Dany was so much _more_  than the daughter of the Mad King. 

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Her voice was nearly reverent as she approached. 

Jon's own mouth twisted, his eyes very nearly rolling in his head. "It would be more useful as a thousand swords."

She let out a laugh of delight. There was no trace of cruelty in it. "You've always been a ruthless pragmatist."

_"Someone needs to be,"_  Jon very nearly retorted, forgetting himself and where they stood. It was so easy to slip back into old arguments and habits, as if this were an ordinary day of strategizing and planning. As if he were not soaked in sweat and blood, staring at the throne that was his, if not by birthright, then by right of conquest. The bells had rung. Cersei had surrendered, when faced with the might of the Unsullied forces, the Ironborn, the Dornish and the strength of the Reach. They stood, not in the makeshift council room of Qarth, but in the Red Keep. 

"We are finally home," Daenerys' voice was soft, and the cruel part of Jon wanted to cut through such naivety with that same ruthlessness she accused him of. 

"The war is not yet won," Jon offers instead, a peace offering, a compromise between the softness he could have once offered her, when their days were filled with lemon trees and bright colors and the promise of a future underneath the brightness of the stars. He had loved her as a child, as deeply as he had loved Rhaenys, more than he had loved Aegon. She was Daenerys Stormborn, and he was Jon Bloodborn. They had played at knights and maidens and ever manner of childhood fancy. And then Rhaegar had sent Viserys and Daenerys away, and she had returned a Mother of Dragons, a violet-eyed beauty who burned with frightening want. Jon's eyes had steadily gazed at the night sky, but his aunt's had been fixed firmly westward. She spoke of the second coming of Aegon the Conquerer, and his sister wives. 

Rhaegar had wanted his name to be Aegon, he had once been told. Jon's face had twisted in anger and horror. Aegon was his brother. Aegon was the rightful prince. Rhaegar had his Aegon, what need could he have for another? He had been named Jon instead. Likely a nod to his Northern roots, an acknowledgement of his father's oldest friend. He was Jon, not Aegon. Not his older brother, and not his ancestor who had conquered the seven kingdoms of Westeros with his sister wives and their dragons.

Jon had no intention to take Rhaenys or Daenerys to wife. He was no Aegon. He was barely a Targaryen, save for the fire that ran through his blood, hot, like fury. He had been born practically with a blade in his hand, born of violence, born to fight, but not born to conquer. He was not born to rule, no matter what claim he had, through name or blood. He might have never sailed to Westeros, if not for Daenerys' westward gaze, Rhaenys' little birds bearing ill-omens, Jon's own fury that he never gave voice to. 

"You should have killed her where she stood." Daenerys' voice was accusing, and Jon repressed a sigh. Of course that was what Daenerys would assume, when he insisted the war had not ended. The matter of Cersei Lannister was hotly discussed, leaving no one satisfied with the result of such arguments. 

She had been bound in chains at Jon's command. Lead to the Black Cells, carefully guarded by only the most trustworthy of the Unsullied soldiers. Daenerys' eyes had flashed with the desire to see her burn. Rhaenys' lips had pursed, but for once her gaze had been as lethal as her aunt's. Even Margaery Tyrell, the thrice-wedded queen had twitched her mouth with a desire for the violence that so easily ran through Jon's veins. Tyrion had said nothing, but the clench of his fists had been telling all the same.

Jon refused them all. It was not mercy on his part. Cersei Lannister would face punishment. Her family had aligned themselves with Robert Baratheon during the Rebellion. It was her father that had Rhaenys' mother murdered - and would have murdered Rhaenys and Aegon, had Jon Connington not managed to spirit them away from the Red Keep in time. Her bastard had been responsible for executing Jon’s own uncle, an honorable man by all accounts, an innocent man, according to Varys and even Tyrion. The Lannister reign had been destructive and ruinous, and Jon would see her die for her crimes. But she would be put to trial. It was the way of Westeros. The way of  _ justice _ . The land had existed without it for too long. Jon would see it return with the dragons.

Ignoring Daenerys’ condemnation, Jon sheathed his sword and turned, striding out of the throne room, away from the accursed throne. “Summon our advisers to the council room. There is much we still need to discuss.”

* * *

Bran Stark had never been a patient boy. He had been a nimble-footed child. He had terrified his lady mother with how he scaled and leaped and flew from turret to turret of the castle that had been his home. Old Nan had clucked her tongue at him, and insisted he was more cat than wolf. His mother had pursed her lips and tried to hide her smile. She hadn't been successful. She could never hide her smiles from Bran. He liked the comparison, even though he knew Old Nan had been reprimanding him, at least in part. He was a cat wolf. It made him feel closer to his mother, a Cat who was also a Stark. They said that cats always landed on their feet, no matter how high they climbed and fell. Bran always landed on his feet too.

Until he climbed the Broken Tower to find the Kingslayer fucking the queen. Then Bran hadn't used his feet ever again.

His patience hadn't increased since his fall. Bran was still impatient and still hated waiting. The difference was that now he had to do more of it. He could not simply seek out the answers himself, not the way he used to. He had to wait for answers to come to him, whether in the form of a dream, or words on another's tongue. He had learned to hide his impatience though. His sister had taught him. He had once thought that Sansa was the most patient woman to walk the earth. Her patience was greater than his own, certainly, but she grew easily frustrated as well. Bran had learned how to see it. But she hid it well, underneath a stone carved mask, underneath placid smiles and simple courtesies. Bran spent plenty of time with Sansa Stark. He had learned the armor she wore, just as he had learned the leathers and steel of the ensembles his brother and sister wore. 

They were who he waited on now, Rickon and Arya, and even Meera. Jojen had left to rest, seeking answers in his dreams, but sleep had escaped Bran. Sometimes if he closed his eyes, he could feel the vague outline of Summer's mind. He could almost reach to his wolf, before Summer ran faster, slipping away from the outstretch of Bran's mind. He warged into his direwolf often, but sometimes his wolf's mind was just out of reach. He was with Nymeria and Shaggydog now. Bran could taste the violence at the very edge, before allowing himself to slip back, slip into the present. 

Sansa was across the room, her face a careful veneer of concentration as she bent over the plants and poisons, yet another poultice carefully held between gentle fingertips. Arya was the fighter, she often demurred with soft eyes glancing up through long eyelashes, her face gentle and inviting. Arya was the warrior, and she was just the maiden, devoted servants of the Seven that they were. Her smile said nothing of the poison on her lips, her clothes, her fingertips. Sansa had spent enough time in a Maester's chambers in her short childhood, cut ruthlessly at the neck the moment Ilyn Payne had done the same to their father. Sansa had become a dutiful student of the arts of healing, but it was the art of death she took to easiest. 

They were easy Starks to forget, Sansa and Bran. Rickon and Arya were the ones people noticed, with their snarling teeth, their quick hands and quicker blades. They came sharp and fierce and hard, like the winds of winter. Whispers of the wolves had already spread far and wide across the North. Bran had been fortunate enough to see the news delivered to the _esteemed_  Lord Bolton, a dream he had relayed to Sansa with glee. People spoke of them, Rickon and Arya, the wild wolves come to claim back their land of winter and teeth. They spoke of the destruction Bran's siblings left in their wake, the deaths at the hand of vicious direwolves, the towns freed from Bolton rule in the cold hours of morning.

They did not speak of Sansa, with her beatific smiles hiding the scars that littered her body, the many more that existed in places no one would ever see. They did not speak of Bran and his frustration, the cage of his useless legs, the sharpness of his dreams at night. They knew nothing of the Starks left behind, who lingered in the shadows. It was better that way though, Bran knew. Let the North know of the wolves that had returned to seek revenge on all that had wronged them. Everyone knew of what had happened to the Freys. Everyone knew that winter had come for the traitors who had violated guest right and dared to slaughter four Starks. 

Fewer knew of the poison that had eaten Petyr Baelish, the harbinger of war. Few knew of the way he had convulsed on the ground, his treason and desires laid bare by a boy who could not walk. Few knew of the way the bright blue eyes of Catelyn Tully - given to her daughter - had _burned_  with brightness. Everyone knew what happened to those who dared to harm the Starks. 

Few knew which Starks were the ones to truly fear.

He could wait, Bran decided, folding his hands carefully over his lap, staring into the flickering flames of the hearth as Sansa continued to work. He could feel the wind picking up already, the child beginning to creep underneath the door. Rickon and Arya and Meera would return soon enough. Winter had come. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright, so another exposition chapter! if you're impatient to get into the action, never fear, some _very_ important conversations are going to be taking place in the next chapter as team targ turns their eyes north!

**Author's Note:**

> so, what did you think? i know there are probably a lot of questions, but hopefully they will be answered soon! next chapter: the starks! i wanted to use this fic as an opportunity to explore sansa's righteous anger outside of an isolated incident, to examine a jon that was raised to rule, and write a dany that wasn't left quite so alone in the world. as always, i appreciate any feedback!


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